


how bad is your wanting?

by Irrelevancy



Series: badly, I know, but I live [5]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Begging, Bone Dislocation, Branding, Cock Slapping, Crying, Dirty Talk, Discussion of Rape, Double Penetration, Fingerfucking, Fire, Graphic Description, Guilt, Happy Ending, Healing, Humiliation, Insecurity, Kinktober 2019, M/M, Manhandling, Multi, Name-Calling, Panic Attacks, Rape Fantasy, Riding, Sexual Fantasy, This might actually qualify as healing cock but not in that way, Torture, Trauma, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-21 15:14:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21076994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrelevancy/pseuds/Irrelevancy
Summary: Sabo harbored a fantasy.





	how bad is your wanting?

**Author's Note:**

> Man, okay, reader discretion absolutely and thoroughly advised, but I didn't tag this dead dove do not eat for a reason. I'm thinking about trauma, and healthy (or at least, non-harmful) ways of processing it.
> 
> Kinktober fills for rape fantasy and degradation.
> 
> See notes at the end for content warnings.

They didn't have a _tell us everything_ kind of relationship, a fact which Sabo appreciated more than he could ever even say to Ace.

There was the obvious stuff, of course, with the RA. As if being a Revolutionary wasn't enough, being Chief of Staff meant he was so beyond the if-I-told-you stage; he was supposed to pull the trigger, drain the artery before the question's even finished.

There was also the less obvious stuff. Stuff that ran not underneath the surface layer, but under the bottom of the whole damn pie tin. Related, yes, to the RA, because what in his life wasn't, but not the easy summation of X plus Y equals Z. More of a derivative, really. The powder burns that could've been from a gun or a firecracker, the mysterious plus-C.

The burn in question: a fantasy. The fantasy: rape. Self-disgust didn't even begin to _cover_ how Sabo felt about this particular burn mark.

The thing was, it really had nothing to do with Ace or Marco. It was a quagmire that's sat in his mind since what felt like day one. The RA taught, amongst many things, hyper-vigilance, which translated into hyper-paranoia. The world is your enemy (fact), and they will destroy you at any opportunity (also fact). Destruction can take on many different forms.

Koala understood. She had been the red-faced hyperventilating anger-fear that first put it into words for Sabo. _Don't you just wish sometimes_, she had said on the night she dropped that well-practiced smile, became all teeth and impact tests against steel, _they'd just fucking do it to us already? Get it over with?_

_What, rape?_ Sabo had asked, a bit shell-shocked.

_Can't hurt worse than being branded, getting stabbed, getting kneecapped, can it? So what do I have to fear?_ Koala asked in a tone so ironic she sneered at herself. _I hate this murky unknowing. What's one more thing to survive? It's just training, isn't it? If I've done it once, I can bear it so much easier the second time. We know that._

Horror was subjective, so what Sabo took away from Koala's venting that night was a deeper meditation on an annoyingly real fear. Humiliation was the name of the game, and the RA has taught them that well. To break a sentience, you destroy their sense of identity; if their sense of identity involves bodily autonomy and sexual agency, then that's what you take away. Broken creatures can be more easily made to crawl for scraps from the table, and when they've reduced you to that state, it's only a matter of time before you give away all of the RA's most integral secrets. It was easy to swallow the cyanide before it got to that point, but wouldn't it be nice to survive and fight another day?

(Wouldn't it be nice to come back, to Koala, to Ace, to Marco?)

So, the balm for the burn: practice. Koala made a lot of sense (as always). _If I've done it once, I can bear it again_.

That wasn't really the kind of thing Sabo could so easily ask his boyfriends though.

Optimistically (and he was a changed man for love now, he practiced shit like optimism), Sabo could imagine horror and pity and discomfort and well-intentioned-but-ultimately-misguided nagging about the dangers of his job. He could imagine the twin looks of shock and aversion on Ace and Marco's faces, could imagine wanting to cry at one and punch (plus cry at) the other. He could imagine the sharp veer into a more polite subject of conversation, then the slow distancing due to that foundational lack of understanding, and then losing Ace to that moral upstanding lovely bastard and also losing access to Marco's bed. Also Marco, whatever. And that was the best scenario.

There was no singular worst scenario because every other option was just worse in different ways. He could imagine hurting Ace, knifing into that age-old sensitivity of being thought of as a demon, as evil, as his father's son because why else would Sabo be asking him to commit _rape_? Even faked, even negotiated, Sabo wouldn't dream of making Ace occupy a role of repugnant brutality he's never even wanted to play, manifest an anger he's never had.

He could imagine hurting Marco, because god that man was easy to hurt. Just because Marco liked to roll on his back and present his center of mass for the stabbing, just because he didn't flinch when the knife went in didn't mean Sabo hasn't hurt him. Sabo _knew_, okay? Knew very well the sacrifices it took to be with someone as damaged as himself. He's already taken so much advantage of that too-fine, gossamer line Marco drew between things-I-want-for-me and things-I-want-because-someone-else-wants-me-to-want-them, he might actually destroy Marco if he asked for this too.

_Marco, I need you to be the villain._

_Marco, I need you to not just hold me down, but beat me down. Punch and kick and suffocate me. Break me down, and let me bear it. Oh yeah, and I need you to find pleasure in this too._

Right. Ace wouldn't let him do that to Marco, and more importantly, Sabo wouldn't even let himself do that to Marco. The man would just say yes, and then Sabo would've gone and fucked everything up again.

Okay, so boyfriends were a dead end, at least for the time being. Which was fine! Sabo could hardly blame them (especially given the fact that this has been an entirely solo endeavor on his part so far). The problem still remained though, gone itchy with irritation.

The solution was, once again, provided by Koala.

_Fantasize about it_, she recommended over dinner one day. _It's still shit, but it's the least shit, y'know what I mean?_

_What do you fantasize about?_ Sabo asked, only belatedly thinking it might be rude or too private. But frankly, he and Koala have crossed the line of rudeness when he had to grab hold of her knife-gouged shoulder slippery with blood to reset the dislocated bone there. They crossed the line of privacy when she had to help him buck naked out of a torture chamber that one time (she had gotten there right before Sabo would've finally gotten to _practice_) and share three pieces of clothes and one pair of boots between them on the resultant trek through kilometers of desert.

_Robin-san,_ Koala answered matter-of-factly. The self-consciousness was only visible to someone like Sabo, who's known her through all the thick and thins. _How she used to work with Crocodile. Her fruit powers, you know?_

_She can hold you down_, Sabo surmised.

_Deal damage from every direction_. She set down her food, settled back on her arms, and sighed deeply. Was it a sigh of disappointment? If so, what exactly was she disappointed about? _She'd be so gentle, but brutal about it. As in, it wouldn't be about damaging me from the outside, but pushing and pushing me until it's all I can think of, and it's all I know. Can you imagine being held like that? Hands everywhere to catch you when you squirm, and still more hands to work you over._

_Do you imagine yourself screaming?_

_Yes._ Koala smiled, a little abashed and a little innocuous, given the filthiness of the subject matter at hand. But Koala was cute like that, Sabo thought, the simultaneous embodiment of the worst and best of humanity, in so many ways. _I'd really love to scream, I think. When I think about being held down, being tied up, being in bondage again... I think it'd be nice to scream my head off and fight her every step of the way. And when we're finished, come out of it knowing—_

—_that she loves and respects you—_

—_and I'm perfectly okay, yeah._ She cocked her head wryly. _How about you? What would you fantasize about?_

He would fantasize about crying. That's the endgame, that terror-stricken mess of tears that only arose out of sheer helplessness. More than anything, Sabou thought, RA officers felt the threat of helplessness as a constant looming specter; it's what their vicious agency was born out of. That anxiety, that paranoia got so damn _large_ sometimes though, that it felt like the only pressure-relieve valve was to blow the whole thing.

Ace, he thought, could hold him down. They've sparred a million times but Sabo could imagine Ace _relentless_, not pulling back even after Sabo's tapped out, not relinquishing the stress position he's wrestled Sabo into. Or, he would. Shove Sabo back onto his feet and wordlessly kicking off another round, before Sabo was ready. Drive in with a left hook, an uppercut, a wrestling move that would down Sabo again. Then Ace would pin him for real.

_You forgot me,_ Ace would say, expression dark. _You forgot Luffy. And you have the audacity to traipse back in after ten fucking years and act like nothing's wrong?_

Sabo would physically lash out, because that's what he's trained to do, but Ace would find another grip. Flip him this time, ground his face down into sharp gravel. Put a hand on the back of Sabo's neck.

_Don't fucking move._ And he would summon his flames.

(Reason number four hundred eighty-nine for why he can never ask this in real life. _You know how if I'm forced to, I might just admit that fire is a source of trauma for me? Yeah I also want you to use it on me, threaten me with it until I cry._)

The fire would lick quickly over his neck, but not so quickly that Sabo couldn't feel the burn. Nothing damaged, no blistered skin, but _enough_. Sabo could already feel his hands and feet numbing in shock, cold sweat dotting his forehead.

_I will take back,_ Ace would snarl,_ what I'm owed._

_Please_, would escape Sabo's lips. What he's begging for he could never be sure.

Or, it could be Marco. A Marco who ran out of that patient smile. A Marco who, when Sabo asked, would sigh in resentment, reply, _do you really think I have nothing better to do than entertain your vapid little games?_ Whose teeth might come flashing. _You think you want pain yoi? I'll show you pain._

How would it feel, to be tag-teamed this way by the First and Second Division Commanders of the Whitebeard Pirates? These were men feared by the world, who made their fists out of flames. This was Ace and Marco, whom Sabo hurt, and Sabo owed. It shouldn't be hard to imagine them taking their due.

During the fight, Sabo thought, they'd get his clothes off. Every pesky protective layer between his scars and the world. He didn't have a complex, really. He could still be perfectly functional with everything exposed. It was just that he'd rather—not. That's why it'd hurt when the buttons went scattering. That's why it'd hurt when fistfuls of cloth went up in flames, but maybe that was really too harlequin romance, too teasing and _nice_ for someone like Sabo—

Ace would get that dagger to his throat, and Marco would come up behind him. A nod of the head from Ace, and Marco would be pulling his jacket off. A swipe of that blade, and his shirt would come flying open, edges stained with fresh blood.

_You owe me_, Ace would claim, _everything_. He'd eye Sabo's torso, then fixate on the waistband of the trousers when Marco got the belt off, got the RA accoutrements out of the various pockets. _Take your fucking boots off._

At knife and fire point, Sabo would kneel and start working on his boots. He'd stop, when he felt a sandal sole step on his back, right over a patch of scar.

_Sensitive, are you?_ Ace would snort, before a booted foot socked Sabo right in the ribcage.

_Hurry up yoi,_ Marco advised, _or we cut everything off._

The moment the boots fell away, Sabo would feel rough hands grab and lift him by the armpits. Marco. He'd kick out, but Ace would be quick to bat his feet away, get within Sabo's striking range and get some vicious grips onto sensitive tendons. Shove his way right between Sabo's legs, holding them akimbo. If Sabo bucked back, he'd just slam into the unyielding line of Marco's torso, and if he kicked forward, Ace would just twist his legs until he screamed.

_I finally get everything I've always wanted,_ Ace would say, _and you come crawling back, like an infestation. What are you trying to do, huh? Make sure I'm just as ruined as you?_

_I'll leave you alone_, Sabo would choke out, all rage and panic and guilt. _If you let me go I'll leave, you'll never have to see me again_—

_But you've already wasted so much of our time_, Marco would snip into his ear. _We really ought to get something out of the services already rendered, yoi._

And as punctuation, he'd take a pointed stride forward, bending Sabo further in half and thrusting his hip. Proof of where he wanted to take the night would press, hard, right into the still-clothed cleft of Sabo's ass.

In a fit of hysteria, Sabo would thrash, trying to get out of those arms with all his strength. Amidst the kinetics his elbow would fly free, catch Marco right in the face. Broken nose, broken cheekbone, a nasal shout. Ace's grip tightened, and Sabo, instead of fighting or fleeing, froze.

Marco'd heal, of course, and come back a hundred times angrier. He'd shove Sabo's weight completely into Ace's hold with the exception of one arm. He'd get a good grip on Sabo's wrist, the other hand on Sabo's scapula, and before Sabo could really figure out what's going on Marco would _yank_. Sabo's shoulder bone would pop out of its joint with a nasty sound and a nasty scream.

_If I were a worse man_, Marco would whisper close in Sabo's ear, as Sabo helplessly shook. _I'd fuck you just like this yoi._

_You think you're damaged?_ Ace might hiss. _Just wait 'til we're through._

_But lucky for you_, and he was bracing both hands on Sabo's shoulders again, and Sabo was already sobbing for him to stop, fuck, please, don't, _I'm a doctor._

And he'd shove the joint back into place.

_Oh that chilled you out_. Ace's snort would be accompanied by hands caressing down his back, but at this point Sabo would be too shaken to flinch away. He _needed _those gentle touches, because if they were gliding softly across his skin those hands couldn't be hurting him. He'd lean in, when the touch appeared to be pulling off, and Marco would chuckle.

_Slut_, he'd say, and shove a hand down Sabo's pants.

They'd manage to keep him hoisted in the air between the two of them; Marco'd brace one impossibly strong arm like a bar across Sabo's mid-back and hook both of Sabo's elbows over it. Ace would—Ace would—

Having already worked the front of Sabo's pants open, Ace would fist Sabo's cock, pull it out past the buttons. He'd work Sabo over with crude strokes, scratches and pinches and even a slap or two. Then when Sabo's finally reluctantly hard (with Marco's nails scratching cruelly around his rim as well), Ace would let him go. And _spit_. Flick at the head of Sabo's dick with a nail bed.

_Get me hard_, Ace would order, letting go of Sabo so suddenly that Sabo had to scramble to keep both legs wrapped around Ace. He'd be quick to wonder why he would stay in position, thinking seriously about dropping his bare feet onto the floor and making a run for it.

And Ace would get the dagger back out. He'd aim the flat side at Sabo's cock.

_Now_.

So Sabo would hold back a scream and, keeping his legs locked tight around Ace, begin grinding against the front of Ace's pants as best he could. Marco would of course choose that moment to hook a dry finger into Sabo's ass, curled so just to make Sabo's life much more difficult. Marco's dual grip holding him back meant Sabo couldn't get either his cock or ass to be the main point of contact, meaning most of the pressure from Ace pushed on the sensitive skin of his testicles, his perineum. Ace would smirk, watch him squirm, spit on him again.

Hit him anyways.

Sabo'd flinch so hard at the first hit of the cold steel that Ace's free hand would be forced to brace him, and another one of Marco's fingers shoved painfully in beside the first to hold part of his weight. Immediately, Ace hit him again.

_You're lucky I don't just cut it off_, he'd declare unfeelingly. _Now dance._

Sabo would. He'd work his hips until everything between his abs and balls and back were sore, and then keep going. He'd work until he could feel Ace fully erect, and work harder. _If I can get him off, he might be more pleased with me_. He might stop slapping that fucking _dagger_ against Sabo's hateful, unyielding erection.

_You filthy whore_, Marco would observe, voice all low and rumbling through his chest pressed up against Sabo's back. His dick was there too, just as hard as Ace's. Somewhere along the line, Marco had freed himself from his pants, and Sabo could feel the smear of precome against the small of his back. He was dancing against Marco's fingers too. _You want to be fucked so badly, don't you yoi? Look. _And he'd spit too, a splatter of wetness down Sabo's chest. _You're dripping._

_Like I give a shit about what he wants_, Ace would sneer. _Beg us to fuck you._

_Please fuck me_, Sabo would choke out. _But I can't—Lubricant—_

_Beg for that too then._

Sabo—stopped. He had to. Beg to be lubed up and fucked? Beg for this experience to be easier? Wasn't the whole point of the fantasy agony, that he didn't want this, that he had no choice?

_Oh_, Marco remarked, pulling Sabo back into the navy haze of the fantasy with a burning jab of fingers. _He doesn't want to._

_No, I—_

They dropped him unceremoniously on his ass, Sabo feeling the burn from fingers removed too quick, at too sharp an angle. But that quickly became the least of his worries, as the hard casing of Ace's boot kicked him over, then _stepped, _right on a cheekbone, grinding his face into the ground.

_Do you think_, Ace asked incredulously, _you have any say right now? I told you to beg._

(Because even in Sabo's fantasies Ace was endlessly generous; Sabo didn't want choice, so Ace took that away.)

_Please_, came out of Sabo, strangled.

_Please what?_

_Please don't fuck me dry._

_There's_, Marco said, with a clink of glass bottles being passed over Sabo's head, _oil._

_Hm._

There was a little give then, under Ace's boots, and it felt like Ace was nudging his face up. So Sabo reluctantly glanced up through his eyelashes, just in time to catch Ace, rubbing oil-coated fingers together, setting the glistening liquid aflame.

A grip jerked his pants down, and Ace poured a stream of golden oil directly onto the cleft of Sabo's ass. All while fire still licked at his knuckles.

That's when the panic truly kick in, breath _whooshing_ out of his lungs as fast as oxygen burned. Fuck his face, his neck, his _everything_, he had to _get away._ Hands went feral, pulling and tearing and hoisting himself up, bare feet scrambling for purchase even as liquid trickled humiliatingly down his half-removed pants. He tried to pull them back up. Arms caught him, wrestling him back down on the ground.

Blue fire surged around him with a loud _pop!_ of ignition, and Sabo would've shouted had he had enough air. He bit, he ruptured, he severed, but all the flesh, all the restraining muscles kept coming _back_. Sharp talons gouged into his legs, shredding his trousers and rending whatever linen was left completely off. And still Sabo fought, wondering how badly it'd taste to beg _Marco_ for mercy, but how total his degradation.

Then the flames billowed red, with so much more oppressive heat. Ace's features, split by fire, appeared right in front of Sabo, cradled in his fire and Marco's. And Sabo _hurt_, all over, his back his ass his legs, but mostly his chest, in the way of painful constraint, 'cause his mouth may be helplessly open and he was heaving these huge painful hiccups but no air has come in for a while now, and the ache was getting sharper and the edges of his vision was getting blacker and Ace was lifting a hand, palm set in entire conflagration and he—

_You're so scared of everything_, Ace said, disgusted. _Isn't it about time you faced those fears?_

He set his burning palm on Sabo's chest.

Sabo wished, Sabo _prayed_ for unconsciousness, but he didn't get such bliss. He got instead that familiar, awful stinging that started, then spread as fast as a spilled nest of spiders. It dispersed under his skin, through his skin, right into the nerves and Ace _pressed_, stimulating Sabo's lungs and in a cruel twist of fate, Sabo could breathe again. Just in time to inhale the smoky scent of his own flesh burning, to keep him conscious through this entire _branding_.

_See?_ The way Ace affected kindness now was entirely mockery. Everything he did aimed to hurt. _It's not so bad._

The fire finally went out, all of it. The hissing sizzle of cooking skin and the crackle of the flames in the air disappeared, and the silence felt large. Sabo felt _melted_, all the hard-strung tension_panic!_horror_fuckfuckholyshitthisisn'tIcan't_strain instantly liquifying throughout his body. Like he just—couldn't, anymore. Couldn't hold. Couldn't fight. Couldn't keep corporeal.

That's when Ace's cock slid into his ass.

That, of all things, shocked Sabo the most, his mind tumbling into numbness as Ace's hips slotted into place between his legs. It wasn't a gentle gesture, but it didn't _hurt_, because no part of him had the energy anymore to put up a fight, keep Ace out when oil was already coating, so obligingly, Sabo's entrance. Ace's expression was mostly blank, as Sabo imagined his own was. This act, it said, had nothing to do with pleasure—at least not the pleasure of orgasm, of actual sex. This act was all hate.

Sabo felt the tear spill out the corner of his eye.

_Do you get it now?_ Ace muttered as he began thrusting. It was pure fucking, no love, no consideration. _How little you mean to me?_

Marco, salting the wound, cupped Sabo's face and turned his head, pulling him into a kindly kiss. Sabo's lips parted, and he heard himself sob.

_You should be marked_, Ace was continuing to say, eyes on the palm print on Sabo's chest beginning to blister. _You deserve to wear your sins on your skin. You don't ever get to take it off, you hear me? And every time I get my hands on you, I will mark you again. And you can never forget. You won't get even a second of ease from remembering what you did to me._

Then, _ask Marco to heal you._

_No—_No!_ Please, don't_. And Sabo pushed Marco's hand from his chest with a trembling arm that could barely hold its own weight. Ace raised an eyebrow.

_Ask him to fuck you then._

_Marco_, he obliged, voice gone just as weak as the rest of him, _please fuck me._

Marco angled his head back even more, and made Sabo look directly into his eyes. He was smiling in good humor.

_Ask me again yoi_.

_Marco_. Sabo broke, voice and breath hitching into an unsteady mess of weeping. _Please fuck me._

When Marco pressed the head of his cock in right next to Ace's, Sabo—Sabo would—

_I'd fantasize about them absolutely wrecking me_, Sabo told Koala, voice already hoarse. They would fill him so perfectly, stretch him right up to the point of tearing. Make Sabo come. Keep fucking him.

_Would they hurt you?_ Koala asked, a quiet prompt for the next quarry his mind could happily dive into.

_All over._ He thought about fire, more handprints, bruises and blisters scrawled across his skin. He thought about only being a warm hole to fill, beaten and chained to the foot of the bed. A spider gag would split his mouth and a metal bar would spread his legs and his eyes, swollen and smarting from crying, would always open to a cruel expression, a sadistically curious smile, as something else pressed into him. A cock, a dildo, a taser baton. A torch, soaked and dripping in oil, sliding into him unlit but sending him into panicked convulsions every time. _God, they can really ruin me._

_You risk so much for love_, Koala snorted.

He woke up hard in Marco's bed. Ace, as per the usual, was dead asleep in the center. His soft snores were a comforting sound, and Sabo couldn't help but chuckle as he burrowed into Ace's back.

Marco blinked awake on Ace's other side.

“Can't sleep yoi?” he rumbled, voice so sunken and smooth that Sabo's eyes fluttered shut, just luxuriating in the sound. His dick ached with need, wanting so badly to just press forward, grind against Ace's loose-limbed sprawl.

“I don't think,” Sabo hummed, kicking off his corner of the coverlet and slinking over Ace. Marco's departure from sleep was suddenly a lot faster, his attention a lot more keen. “You fucked me well enough.”

“Excuse m—”

Kicking the entire coverlet to the floor (the cold never bothered Ace anyways), Sabo unceremoniously pulled down Marco's sleeping pants (that Marco insisted on wearing for some demented reason, despite all of Ace and Sabo's protests for easy access). Marco wasn't hard, but he wasn't totally limp either—so Sabo eagerly got to work, a wet lap of tongue and a wicked shimmy up the length of Marco's body.

“You—” Shuddering in the sudden onslaught of sensation but by no means unhappy about it, Marco kind of just laid back and let Sabo at it, looking vaguely dumbstruck. “Well someone had a nice dream.”

“Mmh. The nicest.” He couldn't take it anymore. Sabo got his face real close to Marco's, and dragged the tip of his tongue _slowly _across Marco's bottom lip.

“Marco,” he said, “please fuck me.”

Surprise and arousal warred in Marco's gaze.

“Since when were you so polite about—”

A hand holding Marco in place, Sabo wriggled back until he could roll his hips right onto Marco's length. It must've only been a couple of hours since they fell asleep, and Sabo was still pleasantly stretched, slick enough on the inside. Marco's words dissolved into a loud ecstatic groan, and Sabo caught Marco's lip between his teeth.

“You,” Sabo hissed into Marco's flesh, riding Marco harder and harder until the bedframe was loudly squeaking all around them, “fuck me so _good._”

His lip, when Sabo finally released it, was chewed red and swollen. Marco had his head tilted back like he was having a hard time catching his breath.

“I don't think I'm doing any of the fucking at the moment, yoi,” Marco panted. He was certainly trying to meet Sabo halfway, but the combination of angles and Sabo's sheer enthusiasm meant Marco gave up the reins pretty quickly, just settling down to enjoy the ride.

“Just returning,” Sabo gasped, relishing every rub of Marco against his insides as he slid down, and then clenching hard on his way back up, “the favor. Are you close?”

“Embarrassingly, yes.”

Sabo grabbed Marco's hand and placed the palm against his own chest. _Heal me,_ he wanted to say. He grinned instead.

“Come in me.” Marco's face was already screwed up in absolute pleasure, and Sabo knew exactly the coup de grace to tip him over the edge. He kissed Marco again, filthy and adoring. “Hey. I love you.”

Marco spilled hotly into him, and Sabo drank up every sound escaping his lips. He milked Marco's cock for all it was worth, reaching down to strip at his own in furious, eager strokes—

A grip stopped him, and Sabo turned in surprise. Ace had stopped snoring a while ago.

“Oh look,” Sabo smirked, so pleased was he by Ace's _wretched_ expression. “He's awake.”

“Could've just poked me,” Ace said, and then immediately groaning in regret at his choice of words.

“I'd really rather you poke me,” was Sabo's leering response as he (reluctantly) got off Marco's dick. A trail of pearly liquid trickled out of Sabo, and Marco's finger caught it before it could get too far down Sabo's inner thigh.

Then, in the beautiful intuition Marco always exhibited particularly well in bed, with the hand marked by his own come, Marco reached further back and gave Sabo's hole a stinging little _slap_.

Already so worked up, Sabo gasped and felt his knees crumple. He fell right on one of Marco's thighs and the sudden pressure was too damn good not to just grind on, and then Sabo was gone. Semen splattered in little white streaks up Marco's hipbone, and when Sabo looked up, both Ace and Marco were looking at him with expressions of open appreciative delight.

“What _were_ you dreaming of?” Ace laughed, incredulous and not at all self-conscious about his cock, fully erect, being right there. “And how do we make it happen again?”

His beautiful, generous Ace, to whom Sabo owed everything. With a final, teasing lap of his tongue, cleaning up the worst of the mess on Marco's leg (and Marco, despite the sleepiness weighing so obviously on his eyes, still gave a twitch of interest), Sabo shuffled over to now straddle Ace. With a smug little grin, Ace laid back too, hands braced behind his head.

“Are you gonna love me too?” he teased, one hand grasping the bottom of his dick, giving it a jaunty little wave.

“You're really too good to me sometimes,” Sabo confessed, positioning himself agreeably over Ace. Ace caught at his rim, and Sabo worked at it with little twists of his hips until Marco's come was once again trickling out of him, this time down Ace's length. Marco's hand joined the fray, calloused pads of fingers smoothing the dampness over both of them.

“Remind me to be good to you more often,” Ace said faintly, squinting a little in concentration as he slowly, _slowly_ lifted his hip, sliding into Sabo. When he moved his hip back down, Sabo came with him, sitting down more firmly and luxuriating in the fill of Ace's girth inside him. “If this is what it gets me.”

“Anytime,” Sabo promised, meaning it. Content with the feeling of Ace's undulating love-making, he lied forward with a happy sigh, pillowing his cheek on Ace's pecs. He met Marco's eyes, grinned lazily. “And next time, I want you both in me at once.”

“You are,” Marco uttered, “actually going to kill me yoi.”

“Damn good thing you're immortal then,” Ace grunted, before picking up the pace, and surging faster and faster up into Sabo's heat.

So, no, Sabo didn't tell them everything. But, he figured, he told them everything that mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Sabo and Koala talk frankly about the threat of rape in their line of work, and both confess fantasies of non-consent. Sabo indulges in a graphically violent fantasy of Ace and Marco assaulting him. He imagines Ace verbally abusing him, threatening him with fire and a dagger, then Marco threatening rape. Sabo struggles, hurts Marco trying to get away, and Marco retaliates by dislocating then putting back Sabo's shoulder. Ace makes Sabo grind up on him and hits Sabo's cock with the flat side of a dagger. There's a lot of verbal humiliation, and Ace steps on Sabo's face at one point. Sabo tries to get away again; Marco holds him down while Ace brands him on the chest with a hand. Sabo has a panic attack, then they fuck him. All of this happens in Sabo's mind.
> 
> I'm ever so grateful to Tina Horn and Andrea Glik for having [this amazing discussion](https://www.podbean.com/ew/dir-y95gb-63ceaa1) about consensual non-consent, rape fantasies and where they come from, their relationships to trauma but also agency and healing. Another point of reference for me writing this was "[The Rape of James Bond](https://www.newstatesman.com/cultural-capital/2013/03/rape-james-bond)" written by Sophia McDougall.
> 
> My [kinktober tag](https://touchmycoat.tumblr.com/tagged/kinktober-2019), leave a comment!


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